this man

He asked me to dance with him and I agreed. Jumped out of my seat giddily and boogied with him. I danced and grabbed his dorky ruffles, and he caught me with his cane every time I was about to tumble down. I must have stepped on his feet at least four times before finally trying to retreat back to my chair, where I belonged and should be gulping down bullfrogs for the rest of the night. But then he asked me to dance again, for the second, third, fourth time. In all my drunken glory I yelled “I’m such a lousy dancer!” against the music and the people’s cheers. And then as he walked me back to my chair, he kissed my hand and said, “It’s always the man’s fault for not leading the woman.” If that’s how he thinks, I think I might like him. A lot.

But there are flaws to this man, I bet. There better be a catch. Maybe he has eight toes, and that explains why he has superb balance when dancing. Or maybe he's epileptic. Or has irritable bowel syndrome. Or worst of all, maybe he's just like all the "normal" guys I have met in Dubai. Yikes. That's scary.